


A Bridge of Clockwork Magpies

by LouRea (MementoVitae)



Category: NieR: Automata (Video Game)
Genre: Android gender exploration, Androids don't fall in love like humans do, Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nsfw chapters are later and will be marked, Romance, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:47:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22783555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MementoVitae/pseuds/LouRea
Summary: The permanent occupants of the Bunker deal with very different challenges than those who go to Earth on missions. Scanners deal with different challenges than other YoRHa. So what about the two scanners who never went to Earth?Life on the bunker the year before its fall.
Relationships: 3S/801S (NieR: Automata)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 49





	1. June Roll-Out

**Author's Note:**

> I know I said this fic would start in summer but the first chapter manifested physically in my house and would not let me know peace until I wrote it.
> 
> This is gonna be a 12-hit combo about life on the Bunker and the weirdness of android romantic attraction with one or two NSFW chapters near the end.

16 June 11944. 1:08 AM. A miserable hour.

Technically they don’t need to sleep at all, but that doesn’t keep 3S from stifling a yawn. He’s been hard at work without rest for the past month and given what a devastating defeat android forces had suffered only ten days ago, he’s more interested in a week of solid sleep than he normally would be. But duty calls. For some reason, the higher-ups have decided now is the right time to roll out a new scanner. Now, ten days after the complete annihilation of 4,500 androids and the destruction of 100 fully battle-ready YoRHa. The latter of whom were no doubt walking around right now in shiny new bodies with no memory of dying in the company of the former, who were dead for real.

 _God, I need some sleep…_ He doesn’t, but he hates when his thoughts start going down those morbid corridors. At least when he’s asleep, he doesn’t have to think about things like that. He wishes they’d hurry this up.

“I’m 801S,” the new scanner says. “I’ll fight for Humanity with everything I have.”

801 is a pretty strange number. Personality types are in constant development and there are plenty of decommissioned or scrapped behavioral configurations that turned out to be too unstable for YoRHa use, but there’s far from 800 of them. It’s only been two years since they surprised 3S with 32S and 42S. To suddenly release a guy that far up in the hundreds is a bit excessive.

Well, more than that it probably means he’s going to have some special orders for his eyes only waiting for him before he can sleep.

“This is 9S,” says the Operator.

“Nice to meet you! If you need anything, feel free to ask. 9S models are top of the line!”

9S is cheerful again today. He’s easy to get a hold of for orientations and he likes others. He hasn’t been paired up with 2B yet after his most recent death, so he’s especially eager to make friends. 3S tries not to pity his obvious hope that 801S will get paired with him for a test mission, but it’s a tall task. It’s always a tall task to not feel pity when 9S is new like that.

“This is 32S.”

“Good morning,” he answers warmly.

32S is a nice level head and the one who is most likely to end up being shadowed by 801S for a mission or two. Then again, he has a habit of not treasuring his body properly. If it’s to save someone, he’ll throw his life down as carelessly as 3S throws his shoes off before climbing in bed. Command probably doesn’t want their brand-new scanner with the unusual number to get any inspiration from those kinds of actions. It’s a shame really, 32S is great in the field and anyone would come to love being on Earth if they heard him talk about it for an hour or two.

“And this is 3S. He’s been the server administrator for the Bunker since it was built.”

“She means I’m a bit of a relic,” 3S says with a careless smile. “So, they keep me on the Bunker where I’m actually useful.”

801S looks a little lost at how to respond to that. It’s cute. Scanner, Operator, and Healer units always have a certain innocent charm when they’re freshly rolled out. Their specific duties and missions are more nebulous than killing machines, so they don’t have the certainty that comes with knowing their exact purpose fresh off of assembly. He has a sort of soft-eyed, shy look to him, but that’s likely to change once he gets to work properly. Or maybe it won’t. With a personality as way up there as 801, anything could be under the hood.

“That wasn’t reassuring,” 5O chides. “You shouldn’t discount your abilities in front of a new scanner.”

“Hmm~ I suppose that’s true.”

“It’s alright.” 801S doesn’t smile, but there’s a confident warmth to his eyes. “If you’ve been the server administrator all this time, your proficiency must speak for itself. I’m sure you’ll take good care of my data.”

It’s far from 3S’ first orientation, but that’s new. The feeling is shared at the very least by 32S, who makes an impressed ‘oooh’ that makes 9S laugh.

“801S is the polite type, huh?”

3S lets his hands sink into his pockets with a smile. “You’re all polite until your first missions. So, 5O? Which of these equally terrible characters is taking 801S to the field—the boastful 9S or the slightly too sweet 32S?”

Both scanners buzz with anticipation. It’s rare for new scanners to be rolled out and even rarer to partner with another scanner on a mission. 9S and 32S are both on the more recent side, so neither one of them has ever had the opportunity to play the part of the mentor.

“Neither.”

The answer disappoints the other two, but it stuns 3S. “We’re sending him right out then?”

“Unit 801S will not be sent off anywhere,” 5O clarifies. “Just like you, he’s going to be permanently stationed to the Bunker. He’ll be on specialty maintenance detail.”

“Maintenance?” asks 9S. “I guess I get it, but wouldn’t it have been better to make him an H unit if that’s where he was going to be stationed?”

“Orders are orders. Come on, let’s give him the tour and finish this up so we can all get back to work.”

3S spends most of the tour in a daze. He’s usually in a daze, so no one notices that this one isn’t artificial. In the occasional moments where his mind clears, he steals glances at 801S, and even though he’d sat through that long orientation with him, it’s suddenly like he’s seeing him for the first time. Short brown hair, parted to show a pretty prominent forehead. Thin eyebrows. The same slender build as every other modern male unit. He has a high-headed walk. His gaze swivels constantly with the token curiosity that comes with being a scanner, but his hooded eyes don’t betray any actual interest.

801S’ room looks like all the rest and he takes it in. 9S and 32S point out their rooms, which are identical give or take the level of cleanly order vs chaotic mess, and 801S takes it in. They ride up to the maintenance terminal where it’s packed with dense, hulking machinery that would look archaic with the addition of either rust or a bit of steam. 801S runs his hands over some of it while 5O speaks with the frazzled, cranky H unit that heads routine repair and shares the space and use of the systems. She shakes his hand, but her jittery energy rolls right off of him. He just keeps taking it all in.

So confident and curious but also…sort of aloof maybe?

It’s ridiculous for 3S try and read him this soon, but he’s still trying to come to terms with the idea that another scanner will be on the Bunker with him as a permanent fixture. He’s used to them leaving the nest almost immediately. Nothing like this has ever happened before.

“Alright, that’s the end of orientation.” 5O flips a page on her clipboard. “Unit 9S, I believe you have orders in the queue, so you’re dismissed. 32S, you’re headed to a hot zone outside Normandy to assist a resource recovery team so maybe you should take the opportunity to speak with 801S and 7H now before you check in with your Operator.”

“Mercilessly efficient as always,” 9S teases, before waving goodbye. “Good luck, 801S! If you’re gonna be on the Bunker, you can ask SysAdmin anything as long as he’s awake!”

5O follows after 9S with a sigh she probably thinks no one heard. 3S is left to do whatever he pleases. No one but the Commander bothers to order him around. He’s long since stopped needing supervision, just the occasional wake-up visit if he sleeps more than two weeks or if there’s an emergency.

801S is already focused on what 32S needs and following along as 7H guides him through the details of where to get the materials from. Android memory is perfect, but 3S can tell he’s making a conscious effort to log everything he is learning.

So he’s diligent, too.

Best not to overstay his welcome. In the elevator, he lets out the noisy yawn he’d been stifling for the past hour. If there’s a new scanner, that means there’ll be a sleepover soon. As much as he enjoys them in theory, they don’t actually do any sleeping, and he’ll need to be well-rested on the off chance they actually manage to get everyone on the Bunker at the same time.

801S isn’t going anywhere. They’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other.


	2. Midsummer Sleepover

“I’m surprised you guys got organized that fast,” says 15O.

3S remains glued to the expanse of readouts spread in front of him. The Operators designated for oversight of ground missions have been collecting non-essential data again. File pathways stretch out like the branches of an unruly tree, ending in clustered leaves of image, audio, and video files. Just like the war against the machines, the battle to keep the server uncluttered is never-ending.

“I am too,” he mutters distractedly. “But then again I’m just a lazy old guy hanging back and letting the kids do all the work.”

15O clicks her tongue. There’s a pleasant, affirming ping as she signs off on all of his deletion flags. The dual-approval system is meant to prevent him from accidentally deleting anything important, but she hasn’t bothered to check any of his routine work in years.

“You’re only four, 3S. If you’re old what does that make the Commander?”

“I wouldn’t let her hear you asking stuff like that if I were you.”

He smiles, half at 15O and half at some footage of 4S holding a broken umbrella and standing under a crooked but artistically molded lamp post on a cobblestone street. His uniform is standard issue from the waist down, but he’s managed to find a mostly-intact blouse to wear. It’s not really white anymore, but it gives the impression it had been once. The footage is only about 5 seconds long. He holds his hand out for rain that isn’t falling and then the feed ends abruptly as he something off-screen surprises him. He probably got in trouble but knowing him he got out of it just as easily.

3S opts to leave that undeleted for now and rubs at his eyes. He’s only been awake for two weeks, but because he didn’t do any physical maintenance before he took his nap, his body feels like an old hinge desperately in need of oil. Parts of him are creaking that he’s sure aren’t supposed to be capable of creaking.

“Optic strain again? You can’t keep avoiding maintenance forever.”

“7H is scary,” he complains. “Every time I go, she repairs me like she’s trying to kill me.”

“Because you don’t go often enough and you end up taking up hours of her time.” She reaches past his head and swats his displays, closing all of them out. “Have 801S take a look at you if you’re so scared of 7H.”

 _801S…?_ Oh, right. The new scanner whose been assigned to the Bunker.

“I forgot all about him…”

15O scoffs, but they both know it’s obligatory. She’s an older YoRHa unit rolled out 17 months after him and has been in charge of the physical maintenance of the server’s hardware for about two years now. She’s not his Operator, but after working together so closely for so long they’ve grown into a sort of casual, forgiving ease with one another. Mostly meaning she goes through the motions of trying to get him to be less of a mess and acts as a constant reality check that most of his habits are bad ones. But she also understands those habits, maybe even a little better than he likes.

“The get together is soon right? It’s a perfect time to go see 801S. Maintenance terminal might be busy, but he’ll be able to get away for a while if you’re the one who asks for him.”

“Yes ma’am~”

15O’s face curdles like oil dropped in a coolant tank. She hates it when he answers her like that.

The server room is one half of the central axis area of the Bunker, while the other side dedicated to local body storage. Both sides require the right clearance to access. The upside is that 3S is never bothered by anything but requests from the Commander while he’s hard at work. The downside is that the bridge between the central axis and the outer ring is riddled with security measures and inconvenient to cross.

3S scratches at his head and tries to remember 801S while an automated scanner reads his ID circuit for the third time. He’s one of few YoRHa who can say their recall isn’t that good. His memory is perfect just like everyone else’s, but he puts so much of his focus into working and sleeping that his ability to remember never works as quickly as it should. Maintenance has had the related sub-processors replaced on several occasions and his physical memory chips are frequently rotated but it continues to be a problem. Well, more like a mild annoyance. He can remember everything if he really wants to—he just has to try a lot harder than other androids.

When he finally manages to dig up the memory of 801S, everything about him comes back all at once in perfect clarity. 32S and 9S and the orientation and the beginnings of the 801 personality starting to show.

A bit of energy springs into 3S’ step as arrives at the stark white corridors of the outer ring. It’s been about three weeks and seeing what new personalities are like is one of his rare joys.

  * **Sleepover** (n.) : A party, most commonly held by children or teenagers, where a guest or guests are invited to stay overnight at the home of a friend, sometimes to celebrate birthdays or other special events.



32S is the one who found out about this concept. 4S, in turn, is the one who decided the scanners should imitate the custom every now and again on the basis that it would build morale, reduce stress, and facilitate improved mission outcomes.

…Actually, what _4S_ said was ‘We should all get together once in a while; we’re the only scanners on the base so we should stick together!’ and it was _1S_ who made up all those dry, business-like reasons that they should be allowed to goof off together for a little bit once every few months.

It’s not something that’s officially sanctioned, but the Commander allows it in the same way she allows lots of things if she thinks they’re harmless or not worth the effort to curtail. Androids are mechanical, but they aren’t like machines. They all need little snatches of time that aren’t about missions to help them deal with the harsh nature of the war.

A group of ladies outside the elevator to the repair terminal waves to him and he gives a friendly, sleepy wave back. “I don’t suppose 7H is out, huh?”

They giggle and that’s all the answer he needs. In the repair terminal, he peeks around the entryway, and luckily the Healer unit isn’t present in the main room. It’s just 801S.

Who is standing with his hand in his pockets, clearly waiting for 3S. “You’ll look suspicious if you sneak around like that.”

3S laughs and shuffles inside properly. “My bad~ I really didn’t want to run into 7H.”

“15O told me as much.” For being a scanner, 801S can frown disappointedly with the best of the H units. “I took a look at your records. You haven’t been in for maintenance in over fifty days. I know you don’t leave the Bunker, but your job has a really high processing burden. You should take better care of yourself.”

3S makes a note to saddle 15O with a really annoying job as punishment for being a snitch. “You’ve worked closely with 7H, you know what she’s like…”

“She’s right.”

“She’s high strung and never puts my settings back the way I like them,” 3S corrects with a long yawn. “The scanner meet up is about to happen, anyway. If 7H sees me, we’ll miss it for sure.”

801S hesitates. He hasn’t become a full-fledged repair terminal hardass just yet, apparently. “Is it something _I_ can do?”

“Sure~ But I have hardware issues that would probably take you a few hours.” He gestures back toward the terminal elevator. “Why don’t we save it for after the meeting?”

801S tilts his head. His eyes are invisible behind his visor, but it’s not exactly difficult to feel his skepticism. Eventually, he types something in at his terminal and hop-skips across down the hall. “Do you know who will be there?”

“Hmm… It’s always different so I never really bother to ask.”

“You don’t bother to do a lot, do you?”

He laughs as the elevator releases them back on the residential ring. “I do my work. Everything else is small stuff, isn’t it?”

801S’ mouth twists at its corner, and he doesn’t say anything else.

3S keep a dozy smile despite knowing he isn’t making a good impression. 801S might be the kind of diligent type who won’t be able to get along with the flippant person 3S has become over the years since his own rollout. It'd be nice if it was something he could change, but he can’t even remember when it was he started to behave this way. All he knows is that it’s something he needs.

He won’t get too close if all he’ll do is be an annoyance for the junior scanner, but he does hope they can find a little common ground. That’s probably a small enough goal. Something nice and realistic.

“Ah, here we are.” He pats the wall under the nameplate that reads ‘32S’ above and ‘42S’ below. “These meetings always take place in this room.”

“This particular one? Why?”

The door slides open and 3S gestures inside. The room is maybe 1.5 times the size of a standard one, with two beds stacked above one another. 32S is seated on the lower of the two, kicking his feet with idle cheer while sharing something with 9S, who hangs from the top observing the read-out upside down. 1S is propped up next to the bookcase with a volume in hand, and 11S sprawls next to him, fussing with his usual half-pretended touchiness at 4S. “Back when they used to experiment with twin models they built a handful of these rooms around the bunker. We don’t really manufacture YoRHa like that anymore, but the rooms are still here, so sometimes newer units get put in them if they’re rolled out at the same time.”

“In their case,” calls 11S. “They knew nobody but 32S would be able to handle 42S’ awful jokes.”

Easy laughter fills the room and just as quickly melds into a series of sing-song ‘hi’s, ‘hello’s, and ‘nice to see you again’s that wrap around 801S and invite him in.

3S takes his traditional spot by the window. He’s usually on the quieter side during sleepovers. It’s not that he dislikes them; just the opposite. It feels a little bit like being home, but he can’t say that because he’s never _left_ home a day in his life and the feeling probably doesn’t make sense to anyone but him. There’s nothing wrong with that. The younger scanners are energetic and eager and the ways they need this time together probably wouldn’t make sense to him either. He doesn’t know what it’s like to come face to face with a machine or the constant threat of death.

It’s best to let them be the ones to engage while he hangs back and soaks it in.

4S pats 801S welcomingly on the shoulder and passes him by to set the privacy on the door’s mechanism from ‘public’ to ‘private’. It isn’t an actual locking mechanism—those don’t exist in residential spaces—but it is an extra something to keep them from being suddenly barged in on by anyone who decides to stop by.

“All here,” he says energetically. “You got a really good turnout, 801S! The only one who isn’t here is 42S.”

“He’s lucky is what he is. It’ll be another few months until he has a dumb nickname like the rest of us.”

“11S,” 1S says coolly. “You shouldn’t badmouth 42S in front of the new scanner.”

“At least not while he’s not here to tell an awful joke and prove 11S’ point,” 9S laughs.

801S’ brow furrows and he looks between all their faces, trying to figure out if they're playing the subject up because he wouldn't know any better. “Just how bad are these jokes?”

The whole room answers him in a unanimous voice that 3S can’t help grinning at. “ ** _Terrible_**.”

“O-oh…”

“Come on. Let’s get comfortable and we can tell you all about it.”

3S leans his head on his hand. The scanners shrugging off their boots and coats and visors look like blackbirds shuffling their feathers until they shed their dark coloration entirely. 801S doesn’t seem to mind and follows the lead. Their clothes are made to vent heat rather than retain it, and that isn’t really necessary in an environment as tightly temperature-controlled as the Bunker.

But when everyone starts reaching for their pants, that’s another matter altogether.

3S has to cover his mouth to hold in a laugh at the slow and owlish way 801S blinks at his peers, his processors trying and failing to produce a reason why they are stripping down to that level.

“What…are you doing?”

“It’s a sleepover,” 4S explained just as casually as he threw his shorts over the corner desk. “You’re supposed to wear pajamas, but we don’t have anything like that, so the clothes under our uniforms are fine right?”

It’s a skill of 4S’ to come up with conclusions like that. Ones that are technically logical but clearly have a flaw when actually applied to the real world. The internal consistency of his reasoning is strong, though, so very few people ever point out to him that something is a little off. Just like everyone else experiencing their first 4S-ism, 801S struggles with whether or not he should bother. After a moment, he sucks in his bottom lip, and 3S mentally chalks up another win for 4S.

“There might be a maintenance emergency…” 801S mumbles. “I’ll keep them on.”

A rare laugh escapes 1S. He finishes carefully folding his pants and slots them neatly onto the bookshelf before turning to 801S. “4S has a matter-of-fact way of talking, but keep in mind that none of this is actually mandatory. 3S never takes off more than his coat. Do what makes you comfortable.”

801S’ briefly glances 3S’ way. He sinks down to sit cross-legged on the floor, but the other scanners are all plain white shirts and black undershorts. There’s no denying he sticks out, so 3S takes a seat closer to them, with his back against the bed and his fully-covered legs stretched across the floor. 801S seems to notice the gesture and gives a grateful dip of his head.

9S drops down on the other side of 801S, just as happy to see him as he was at orientation. “We’ve already met; I go by Nines with people who know me. Or ‘Greenhorn’ if you ask 42S.”

“801S might end up being ‘Greenhorn’ now,” says 11S. “Since it’s just a nickname for the newest scanner.”

“Can't wait to hear what terrible new nickname I'll have. Everybody usually calls 3S 'SysAdmin', but 42S calls him…What the hell was it?”

“Crowd,” 3S answers with a crooked smile. “Because humans apparently had a saying that ‘Three’s a crowd.’” He nods toward 1S. “He’s Sunshine because 42S found out humans thought the juxtaposition of opposites was funny. 11S is ‘Dixie’ because he whistles and no, not one of us has any idea what those two things have to do with one another, including 42S himself. 4S is ‘4-cast’, because he’s good at making predictions.”

801S actually cracks a smile and has to cover his mouth to hold in his laughter.

“Wait a minute!” 11S blurts. “Do you actually think those are funny?”

“No, no! It’s—they’re so terrible I can’t stop laughing!” His whole body is shaking despite his efforts to get himself under control. “4S has the only name that even makes any sense.”

“It’s a cheat one too,” says 4S. “The whole Bunker used to call me Oracle until it got a bit out of hand.”

“Oracle?”

“For the same reason it’s 4-Cast now. I specialize in predictive analysis.”

“Of _qualitative_ data,” 1S clarifies. “Things that normally wouldn’t be predictable, especially emotional responses. He got in trouble because the Operators were going to him for help with things they shouldn’t have been.”

801S’ laughter dwindles. He leans in with wide, serious eyes. “Like… stuff that’s not allowed?”

“Operators live different lives than we do,” 3S points out. “Especially the ones that work in the command room. There’s a lot that the Commander will let slide so long as it doesn’t compromise efficiency.”

“The combat units too,” adds 4S. “Emotions are prohibited but we all still have them.”

“I noticed…” 801S is basically brand new, but there’s something in the way he says it that feels very familiar to 3S. The other must also take note of it because the conversation evaporates.

They’ve all had that thought at one time or another. It never really goes away.

But 3S doesn’t want such a heavy topic to steal their time together. “Where did you go recently 4S? I caught one of your videos in my filter again.”

“Ah, sorry. You know how 28O is. I was doing some recon work out northwest of Normandy. It was off the Baltic Sea, but the water level is so different from the old world data I couldn’t tell you exactly where.”

“You could,” 1S says patiently. “If you used the sector system like we are supposed to.”

“’Zone NH Sector 12’ is boring! I want to know what humans called it.”

“What’d you find this time?” asks 9S.

“Just a nice shirt and an umbrella. There were a bunch of buses too! The ground androids there use them instead of trucks since there are so many.”

“You mean the yellow ones?”

“No, these are mostly blue or white and they have big black windows. Apparently the yellow ones were for transporting human children. These buses picked up big groups of adult humans and took them along certain routes.”

“Oh so they’re like trains!” 32S beams. “I saw a functional one while I was on a job in Zone H, way out on that island in Sector 4 where they gather up resources to ship to the other orbital bases. But it was really heavily guarded, so I couldn’t get close.” 

“Zone H…?” 1S repeats bemusedly. “That’s a known low-aggression zone, isn’t it? Why did they send you somewhere like that?”

“Oh, you know…” 32S makes a vague gesture with his hands and tries to disappear into his undershirt.

“You went outside your assigned zone against didn’t you?” 11S asks, with a tired sort of sympathy. “Helping resistance androids again?”

“I had a resource-assessment mission closer to Normandy and they needed support…”

“Your support was to help _identify_ the salvageable resources and let them handle the rest,” 1S sighs. His tiredness is not sympathetic, though it comes just as much from a place of consideration. “But I guess going to Zone H is the least dangerous thing you’ve ever done for a resistance android.”

“It was a really cool place! The machine saturation is low because the sun is down below the horizon and there’s all that salt water and next to no heavy industrial sites for them to make replication factories in. There’s a lot of functioning android-controlled ground technology and everyone works really hard to keep it safe and running. The androids there know stuff about humans I would never even have dreamed of!”

A brief, awe-filled silence falls over them. Scanners like answers more than theories by nature, but they all have a certain amount of imagination. 4S and 9S are the most starry-eyed ones who are definitely letting their heads fill with possibilities. 1S looks like he wants to compile all the data those androids have rather than imagine what they might know. 11S is making too much of an effort to look like data on humans has nothing to do with him, so he's definitely thinking of something impossible.

3S notes that 801S is not wearing any particular expression. He’s taking it all in again, while offering nothing.

“Oh, speaking of all this,” 32S continues, shuffling across the loose circle. “4S, I got something interesting from a resistance member while I was there. I thought you might like it.”

32S peeks toward the door and furtively materializes an item. A hat, to be specific. Sort of rugged light brown and made of leather that shone in several spots where the texture had been worn away.

3S doesn’t think much of it. The others bring souvenirs back all the time. But 4S’ eyes light up and he plops it right on his head—even though it’s a bit too big and immediately sags down over his eyebrows. “I’ve never seen a hat like this! Do you have any data on it?”

“It’s called a cowboy hat,” 32S says with all the hushed excitement of an operator with new, spicy gossip to share. “Apparently they come from the kingdom of night!”

“I bet the night kingdom has tons of cool stuff that intact,” says 11S. “It’s probably all well preserved because it’s so cold there right?”

“Wait are we just going to skip over that ‘cowboy’ thing?” asks 4S. “Is it like a lionfish? Were humans hybridizing?”

“The guy I got it from said they were just humans who cared for cows.”

“Cows were like the human-adapted moose right? The way pigs were just boars and dogs were wolves?”

1S frowns at them over the edge of his book. “They were _domesticated_ , yes.”

“But they were still huge right? Why would they make boys do it? Were there cowmen?”

801S grimaces. “Cowmen sounds even worse than cowboy…”

“I think they became cowpokes.” 32S barely manages to keep a beleaguered sort of smile under the pressure of all the expectant stares that follow. “Don’t look at me, I don’t know why they poked them.”

4S adjusts the hat and raises it off of his head. “Well, it doesn’t matter why they were poking them, I guess. It’s a cool hat and I’m gonna keep it.”

“You were talking about a shirt and an umbrella earlier too...” 801S says with a tilt of his brows equally concerned and confused. “Won’t you get in trouble if you imitate humans that much?”

“It’s not really about imitation,” 4S says with an easy smile. “The YoRHa uniform is impressive if you’ve never seen in before but it gets boring wearing the same thing every day. Human stuff is cuter.”

11S throws his arm over 4S’ head, mushing his hair as he pushes him down. “Actually, the Operators are really interested in stuff from Earth, so they don’t punish him for it as much as they should.”

801S’ eyes drop thoughtfully. He’s got a kind of sleepy look to him, 3S thinks. One that comes more from the shape of his eyes and the long length of his eyelashes than from any actual fatigue. He bothers at an ornamental button on the side of his shorts and his fingers alight on a few different spots on his clothes before his head drops to a slight tilt.

3S can practically hear his thought routines poring over the concept of ‘cute’.

A chime interrupts the merriment and 801S is quick to check his mail. His mouth twists in a way that isn’t quite a frown, but does a great job conveying a certain kind of disappointment. The kind where you knew something unpleasant was going to happen and it’s finally arrived and there’s no choice but to get up and go deal with it. And that’s precisely what 801S does.

“I have to get back to the maintenance terminal,” he explains as he tugs his coat back on. “Sorry.”

1S smiles in his sort of approving-supervisor way. “Don’t be. Duty is first. It’s rarer when someone doesn’t get called away.”

801S pauses in the middle of closing his buttons back up and somewhat nervously dips his head. “Thank you all. For including me, I mean.”

“What? You’re a scanner, of course we’d include you!”

“I have a weird job though... I don’t think it’s very scanner-like… And aside from 3S all of you go and risk your lives on Earth.” He looks self-consciously down and away. “Really it feels like I’m not much of a scanner at all compared to you guys.”

“It is a _little_ weird you’re in maintenance,” 11S mutters.

4S jabs 11S in the side, but 801S just laughs. “It’s ok, I get that a lot.” His messages beep again, more insistently, and he darts for the door. Before it closes, he peeks around the wall. “Please invite me next time too!”

There’s a ripple of carefree laughter around the room. 4S immediately begins asking what everyone thinks of ‘the new guy’, but 3S is only barely aware of their answers.

Because he was rolled out around the same time the Bunker reached completion, 3S was alone for a long time before there were other scanners. For the two years of his life, he kept company with operators if he kept company with anyone at all. There were the prototypes of course, but they were transient by nature, and then when scanners were being regularly manufactured, they were all sent down to earth while he stayed with the Bunker.

801S’ clumsy expression of feeling unlike the others is something 3S made peace with a long, long time ago. He’s never expected the other scanners to understand what it’s like to be on the Bunker all the time, and he’s never felt inclined to share it with them. Not when they might die and forget at any time.

But 801S is new and naïve enough to draw attention to it.

“Hellooo?” 4S called. “Hey, SysAdmin, you spacing out again?”

“Hunh?”

“I asked what you think about 801S.”

3S rubs absently at his hair and looks toward the door. “Maybe… ‘I’d like to know a lot more about him.’ A feeling like that, I guess?”

Scanners are curious. This is a fact of their being. But the subjects of their curiosity are generally driven toward more complicated topics, and it doesn’t occur to 3S immediately that expressed interest in another unit might imply more than he meant. He doesn't think he’s said anything unusual until after he’s noticed the room has gone silent.

The others are engaged in a conversation without him, made of nothing but surprised smiles and sly sideways glances.


	3. The August Carousel

801S doesn't realize it at the time, but the visits begin with 1S.

7H greets him with a rare smile that marks him among her least annoying patients. Her expertise is typically on reserve for complicated repair work resulting from field damage and she doesn’t often take on maintenance jobs. 1S is among the few exceptions. She exchanges pleasantries with him for maybe two minutes, joking that she could set an alarm by how regular he is. The uncharacteristic lack of expediency does go away, but only after she spares a third minute to lament that other YoRHa aren’t half as careful with their bodies as him. After that, she waves him in toward the rear diagnostics auditorium as curtly as she would anyone else. 

“If it’s not too much trouble,” says 1S, his hands folded politely behind his back. “I’d like 801S to handle this.”

The request surprises 801S as much as it does 7H. She crosses her arms, but neither of them have any reason to tell him no. 1S is there for routine upkeep. It's well within 801S’ capabilities. There are no rules against the request, especially for a unit who does not have a pre-assigned upkeep technician, and it isn’t as though 801S is busy.

With a shrug, she concedes and steps back to let them pass together. “Alright, 801S. You heard him.”

801S barely has time to acknowledge her before he has to scurry to catch up with 1S.

The aura of authoritative competence is familiar, but away from the scanner-only privacy of the sleepover 1S lacks the approachable warmth 801S remembers. His movements are quick and efficient in a way that 801S has come to associate with D models. It’s hard for a field unit to get dirty on the Bunker, but not a single speck of him is out of place. Everything from his eyebrows to the end of his nose is hidden by the pristine black of his visor. His face is a brief swatch of forehead and the line of his mouth, thin and poised as everything else about him. 

Without waiting to be assigned, 1S assumes the maintenance position on the nearest of the three dozen equally spaced white mats in the auditorium. 801S checks the associated repair bed's serial number and feeds it through the central diagnostics terminal. A trail of white ellipses appear on the screen’s left side, trekking like footsteps one after the other to reach the '100%' on the right.

“How are you acclimating?”

The question drags a shallow crease across 801S’ forehead. “I was built for this job and have every manual I need in my memory data. There isn't much to acclimate to.”

“Experience is a different teacher than data," 1S says patiently. "There's always something to acclimate to."

“I’m sure it’s nothing compared to what you have to acclimate to on the ground.” A dense silence answers, parted by the gentle ping of the machine returning 1S’ complete diagnostic report. 801S laughs a little as he reviews it, in part to dispel the sensation he has just said something he shouldn’t have. “You’re in better shape than most of the operators. Did you even need this visit?”

“That good condition persists because I take my maintenance routines seriously.” 1S sits up and swings his boots back to the floor but doesn’t hurry to rise. “I hope you’re also taking good care of your body?”

801S’ smiles humbly. “It’d be hard for people to have any confidence in me if I didn’t, since I stick out as the only non-H unit on the team.”

There is a shift in the line of 1S’ mouth. Not a frown exactly, but not the subtle smile he covers it up with either. “I suppose that’s good enough. If there’s anything you need or want that will help you, I hope you’ll feel comfortable coming to me about it.”

Unsure of what to say, 801S nods and offers a docile ‘thank you’.

It’s the kind of thing he would expect to hear from a squad leader rather than a patient.

* * *

4S arrives the day after. Just like 1S, he asks to be seen specifically by 801S.

His procedure isn't routine, but it's a minor repair. He asks most of the same questions 1S did while the diagnostics run, and 801S gives most of the same answers until he gets the report. A motor sub-processor in 4S’ right leg is not reacting to inputs within acceptable thresholds. It’s a problem that 801S is more accustomed to in highly mobile units, but he knows from the complaints of the command hall Operators that it’s a problem that can also arise from too little mobility as well.

Given the way 4S playfully swings his legs while on the repair bed, 801S can guess which category he falls into 

“Shouldn’t take long to fix,” he assures. “Please initiate maintenance mode.”

“Yes _sir_ ,” 4S teases, going flat and still atop the table. A slightly tinny replication of his voice exits his speakers, to no surprise from 801S. Many units like to engage in small talk during minor repairs. “Are you getting along with the H units?”

The coating of antimagnetic skin retracts from 4S’ leg. Deftly, 801S unscrews the protective silicon exoskeletal plate to access the hardware beneath it. The sub-processor looks physically sound, but the diagnostic continues to show signs of latency even in reflex stimulation. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“YoRHa can be very proud of their model capabilities," 4S says slowly. There is obvious care in the way he chooses the most diplomatic words—ones that won't leave 801S with a bad impression. "Sometimes certain groups can get a little sore if a different model type is doing their job.”

“S-types and H-types are functionally identical but with different specializations. There’s no reason we shouldn’t get along.”

“There also shouldn’t be any reason for anyone to be skeptical of your repair abilities,” 4S points out gently. “But you get a lot of ‘what’s an S unit doing here’, don't you?”

801S pauses. The Healer units he shares the maintenance area with don’t say or do anything to make him feel like an outsider. It’s everyone else, especially B units, that have gotten him in the habit of offering reassurance that he’s capable of doing the job he was built for. It’s not that he ever forgets what he is, but there’s something harsh about just how often he is reminded of what he _isn’t_.

“…It can’t be helped. I’m brand new. Nobody knows who I am or that I have special design specifications.”

4S is quiet for the few minutes it takes to identify the stuck routine hogging the sub-processor’s power and clear the request from the queue. A few test orders pass through and 4S’ leg responds to each within nanoseconds of the command reaching the destination.

“All good. You can exit maintenance mode.”

4S sits up with a dramatic stretch and hops spryly to his feet. He even spins on his freshly repaired leg for good measure. Satisfied, he clasps 801S’ shoulder. “Thanks! In exchange for a job well done, if anyone is mean to you, come tell me, okay?" He raises his fist, and the tip of his nose scrunches in what is likely a playful scowl beneath his visor. "I’ll beat them up.”

801S sputters and doubles over, clasping uselessly at his stomach while laughter bubbles out. “What are you talking about, 4S? We don’t have any combat routines! And even if we did, the IFF circuit would prevent targeting other YoRHa!”

“I know,” 4S concedes with a smile. “I just wanted to make you laugh. It must be hard to be a repair tech during active descent.”

The humor drains from 801S a little. It’s only been two and a half months since his roll-out and since Normandy, but the war doesn’t offer them any rest. The 211th Descent Mission is planned for this week. Being stationed on the Bunker, he has limited information about when or where or what exactly it entails, but all descent missions invariably take their toll. Soon, he’ll be busy. If he’s very lucky, he will end up covered in oil and lubricant up to his elbows and he will save lives. If not the life of the physical body, then at least the memory of units who might otherwise lose days or weeks of their existence.

4S’ shoulder nudges against his. It's gentle and natural and strangely comforting for being an innocuous act of physical contact from someone he doesn't know that well. “Want me to bring you anything back from the ground?”

“You're not going down there for fun," 801S chides. "Bring yourself back undamaged.”

4S laughs and heartily slaps at his chest. “Don’t worry about me. My fatality rates are in the lowest tenth percentile! How about... I find something extra cute to wear so you can see the pictures?”

There's that word again. 801S averts his eyes even though they aren’t visible. Conceptually, ‘cuteness’ still elicits a response he doesn't have a good grasp on. Nor does he understand why he feels so fidgety when he thinks of 4S wearing old human clothes. He'd assumed it was because they were breaking the rules, but that's clearly not where this feeling is really coming from. And he does want to understand it better.

Call it a scanner's natural curiosity.

Rather than reproach 4S as he should for dabbling in human artifacts, he gives a meek, permissive bob of his head. “I’ll...look forward to it, then...”

* * *

Ten hours pass before 11S shows up.

He marches toward the distribution terminal with war in his eyes, and his glare is enough to leave 801S unconsciously drawing his hands up over his chest. A Healer unit says something perfunctory, but 11S dismisses her with a rude flap of his hand. His intense attention is focused solely on 801S.

“Do you... need maintenance?” he offers cautiously. “An adjustment to your aggression levels, maybe?”

“There’s nothing wrong with my aggression levels,” he barks and crosses his arms. “What do you like?”

The question is enough of a non-sequitur to stall 801S’ thought routines. What did he like? What did that have to do with anything? Why was 11S asking? Why was he asking while looking like he was going to do something _hostile_?

“Uh… stars?”

“Like star-shaped things or the actual stars?” 11S snaps. “Be specific. Is there a particular star you like?”

“No, I just—!” Not even in the most gruesome repair operations has he felt so pressured. “I like looking at constellations!”

“Hm. Cute.”

The word is curt and short and without inflection. An emotionless observation. But 801S feels his temperature rise. Cuteness is metric of charm related to physical appearance, so what exactly is so cute about him liking the visible points of light produced by thermonuclear reactions in other parts of the local galaxy? He might as well have said he likes explosions; why of all things would 11S describe it as cute?

801S does not voice any of his increasingly consternated thoughts at all. Though it doesn’t help him cool the persistent feeling that 11S is making fun of him, it’s not rational to feel this defensive, and he’d rather not get into a confrontation over something so petty.

“Did you need something?” 801S asks again, through a tight jaw. “Like _maintenance?”_

“No.”

11S turns on his heel and barges out just as suddenly as he barged in.

* * *

Pattern recognition is key for a scanner, but it isn’t limited to only that model. Since the last three scanners to visit the maintenance terminal specifically asked for 801S, none of the Healer units wafting through the lobby bother to stop or give it a second glance when 9S shows up.

9S looks between them all, his steps cautious as he approaches the distribution terminal where 801S is waiting. “Uhm… Is something wrong?”

“Nope.” 801S gestures toward the nearest diagnostic auditorium. “You wanted to see me, right?”

9S paces vaguely in the direction he should go, a frown on his lips and a growing wrinkle peeking from between his bangs. “I… I guess? I’m here for a pre-descent clearance. Are you an H unit?”

801S’ face blanks behind his visor, and he runs a quick and quiet memory check. 9S was present at his orientation. 9S was there at the sleepover. He of all people should be aware that—

Oh.

He straightens up and offers a polite if somewhat dry smile. “I’m 801S, the latest scanner model. I handle maintenance supply distribution, but I’m also top of the line if you need any routine repair procedures.”

“A Scanner, huh?” Immediately, 9S breaks into a smile every bit as bright as the one 801S has in his memory banks. “Me too; I’m 9S!”

“I know.” His blunt tone casues a flicker inf 9S’ cheer, and 801S is quick to add: “You’re the most high-end S model in production. You’ve got a reputation.”

9S laughs, but he doesn’t deny it. “That’s me. You must be a specialized type too if you’re here. Might be nice to have a scanner to talk to in maintenance; the H units are always so stiff!”

“They’re only—” They are only stiff with people who are harsh on their bodies. Those who skip repairs, those who don’t handle their routine maintenance in a timely fashion. Those who don’t back up their memories properly and lose important data. It’s been nine weeks since 801S' orientation and 9S has lost everything between and now. Could someone that irresponsible really be their best scanner? No, 801S reasons, something odd must have happened to him. Maybe command sends 9S to dangerous, remote places they normally wouldn’t send a scanner. Places where bandwidth is poor and mission-critical data is prioritized over back up data.

The attempt as rationalization does nothing. It’s not the first time 801S has seen someone lose their memory, but it’s the first time he’s specifically had someone forget him. He thinks of 9S hanging upside down from the upper bunk in the shared room, and how welcoming he’s been every time they’ve crossed paths. He goes by Nines with people who know him, but the 9S who welcomed him to that name is gone.

“…They’re only doing their jobs.”

“Yeah, yeah. That’s all any of us can do, I guess.”

9S says the words light-heartedly, but 801S has tp bite down on the inside of his lip to ignore the sensation of constriction in his black box. 

* * *

The 211th Descent chews up YoRHa units just like the ones that have come before it, and it’s hard to tell if it’s only the lucky or very unlucky ones who make it back to the Bunker to be repaired.

A Defender unit comes in carrying a Battler caked in excessive globs of staunching gel that still fails to stem the leak of lubricant from her massive injuries. The B model is clearly Beyond Reasonable Repair. It would be a waste of finite and precious resources to fully restore her broken body, and far more importantly, it would get all of them reprimanded by command. They can’t fix her, no matter how the D model begs.

All they can do is preserve her memory. For the Healers, backing her up would take hours. For 801S, it’s a process that takes twenty minutes. His capacity isn’t as great as that of the Healer units, but in exchange, he has upload and download speeds comparable to the stationary terminals aboard the Bunker where units are supposed to back themselves up between missions. The fidelity of his recording is similarly peerless.

The Battler’s black box signal fades out atop the maintenance table. 801S stands there, strangely numb while the Defender chants ‘thank you, thank you’ over and over again until the Healers usher her away so that her own repairs can be completed, and her voice fades beyond his hearing.

Later an Executioner arrives alone, covered in minor injuries. A stutter in her motor function causes her to stumble, and she hits the floor with a dull, shuddering thud. For a moment, the Healers watch her, but she doesn't get up. Against the cold ground, she whispers ‘Glory to Mankind’ in a choked and hollow voice and begins to laugh.

7H handles her personally. In the small side auditorium reserved for what is generally called Complicated Adjustments—a dry and fancy term for the special repair process for units who sustain damage to their thought routines or emotional matrices.

It’s memory alteration. That’s all it ever is. And luckily, it’s a procedure 801S is not cleared to perform.

The hours run together in the maintenance terminal and the scent of frayed, sparking wire and thick lubricant and so much spilled coolant choke the usually sterile air. A dozen combat units come and go, cursing the machines with shallow, rattling breaths and bared silicone teeth stained with red. Most of them live. 801S is there to preserve the ones who don’t. 

7H snaps him from the blur with a single shout in his direction: “Scanner!”

This one isn’t walking in, so the Healers mobilize, but something flashes in their eyes, and one by one he watches their postures change to crossed arms and jutting hips. Exasperated sighs and grouchy mumbles fill the air, and 801S thinks for a moment that he must be going crazy because he is the only one who seems to be concerned or feel any urgency.

“What the hell…?” he mutters.

13H overhears him. She’s one of the older Healers and has the sort of hard, testy personality that they all seem to slide into the longer they operate in maintenance. “32S is always like this,” she explains with a dismissive snort. “He’s got the highest grievous damage rate among scanners and the second-highest model replacement rate.”

801S knows who has the highest replacement rate before he’s even finished forming the question in his mind. It doesn’t make him feel any better. “Why? He’s not a combatant, what’s he doing?”

“Being an idiot.” She shrugs. “He constantly throws himself in harm’s way for those ground androids. It’s like he doesn’t get it that his body is expensive specialty equipment. Maybe he thinks he’s some kind of D unit. Hey! Whose gonna fix him this time?!” She’s talking to the other Healers, who respond almost exclusively with whiny protests. This is a routine they are obviously tired of, but it leaves 801S’ hands tightening into fists against his stomach. “Alright, alright. I nominate 801S.”

He starts. “What? Me?”

“Yeah, you’re qualified enough. Just run his diagnostics and handle all the stuff that isn’t hardware replacement. We’ll take over afterward.”

In the diagnostic auditorium, 32S offers a thin, static-riddled laugh. His visor is missing. So is his right arm. There are ripples in his skin where the synthetic material has been warped and scorched by high heat. Soot and scuffs cover his face in mottled patches. “I’d meant to come see you, but not like this.”

“You and all the other scanners." It’s a silly, mundane thing but 801S is more than grateful for the familiar ground as he cuts 32S’ coat off. "What are you guys even doing?”

“Nothing…”

It’s the exact same tone of voice he used when 1S questioned him about being in Sector H. He should work on sounding less guilty if he wants to keep secrets, but it’s not exactly a good time to point that out. 32S’ diagnostics look almost as terrible as his body.

“Why did you let this happen to you?” 801S demands. “Why do you let it happen so often? None of the H units even cared when they saw it was you.”

“Hehe… They don’t like me very much… Everyone is always telling me I'm stupid, but... The resistance androids only get one life, you know? Some of them have been down there fighting for hundreds of years. A few hours or a few days of my time… I think that’s small if they don't have to lose anyone else for at least... a little longer.”

“You don’t even know them. How could you throw something as important as your memories away so easily for strangers?”

“They aren’t strangers,” 32S says with surprising conviction, in spite of the audible rattle of fluid in his ventilation system every time he breathes. “They’re our comrades. Our allies. And they can…even become our friends.”

“Making friends won’t with the war." His voice sounds like a flat and harsh imitation in his own ears. But it's too much. He doesn't sympathize with the callousness of the H units, but he wishes he did. Who would let an android created for war have a personality like this? "Letting yourself get turned to scrap a dozen times won’t do it either. Your body is important, don’t go around damaging it on some whim.”

“Thanks..." 801S flinches at the unexpected response, and 32S offers an apologetic smile. "The only other person who still... bothers to scold me like that is 1S. Like I thought, you're... a kind person."

"Kindness won't win the war either," 801S mutters.

“Maybe not. But you know... I was alone down there. There were no YoRHa nearby. The reason I’m here at all... is because the ones I saved were thankful and sent me home.” His eyes close but he seems satisfied. “They thought of me as a stranger too, and still did that for me. Isn't it amazing? To treat one another’s lives as precious even though there's probably no point… That's human, isn't it?”

801S has never heard logic so internally consistent and so painfully naive. They must treat one another's lives as precious because their bodies are expensive. The resources, time, management, and effort for every android in existence have an associated price tag; none higher than that of a YoRHa. They aren’t human. There is no need for them to behave like humans. There is no need for them to have hearts like humans.

But they do. Every single one of them. 

And try as he might to rationalize it all away until it is only static that can't harm him, 801S is no exception.

* * *

The 211th Descent ends and the 212th begins with scarcely a day between them. It’s a smaller operation than the previous one. A special one to take out a factory that the machines are trying to open in Sector I. It’ll be a joint mission along with some fresh forces from an orbital base stationed close to the area.

For 801S it means the opportunity to breathe. Teams of less than seven units usually represent high-risk missions and are liable to be completely destroyed or have only one or two survivors. Unless they run into some weird trouble on the ground, routine work will be the order of business in the maintenance terminal until the next descent.

He doesn’t bat a lash when 4S strolls in no worse for the wear. There isn’t so much as a scuff on him. As promised, he’s good at staying alive and undamaged despite his eccentric, carefree personality. Which is now expressing itself through his vibrant blue hair.

“I’m pretty sure that’s not an authorized color.”

“It isn’t,” 4S chirps. “My operator already yelled at me, but I got really cute pictures just like I promised so as long as the Commander doesn’t see me like this it probably won’t go much further than that.”

It takes 801S a moment to remember what he’s talking about. Only three weeks have passed since he last saw 4S, but it feels like the conversation they had was one between two strangers.

“Is imitating humans that fun to you…?” 4S turns, his head falling to a curious tilt, while 801S stands rooted to his spot, hands clenched at his sides. “There’s no point in wearing their clothes or pretending to be like them. We aren’t human. We’ll _never_ be human.”

A sympathetic smile slowly finds its place on 4S face, and he takes 801S’ hand, tugging him toward the auditorium to sit him down on one of the repair beds. “You’ve been working too hard, haven’t you?”

“I was made to work. We all were.”

“If we were made to do _only_ that, we would be robots. Isn’t there anything you do to relax?”

“… Sometimes I look at the stars for a few minutes?”

“Just a few minutes?" He laughs, but 801S doesn't get the impression it's at his expense. "You’re so serious, 801S. You're gonna end up being a workaholic like 3S if you keep that up.”

"Don't compare me to him, he's so irresponsible."

"I don't think you know him well enough to sound that sure about it." 801S tilts his head, but 4S acts like he doesn't see the silent inquiry and scoots himself up onto the cot beside 801S. “I take it Descent 211 was hard on you huh?”

There’s something a bit pushy about the way 4S makes himself comfortable in others’ space, both physically and otherwise. Yet 801S can't find it in him to protest even though it frustrates him how easily 4S sees into him. “I’m fine...”

“Is that right," he says, with a slow and drawling slyness that says he knows perfectly well it isn't. "Okay, I'll take your word for it. But tell me something: When you look at the stars, are you doing it because humans did it too?”

“No way,” 801S scoffs, more adamantly than he intended. “I just like the stars. There’s nothing human about them.”

“Same for me.” He’s already busily pulling up photos from his most recent trip. It looks like he was stationed somewhere out in the mountains. Across a series of shots, he weaves in and out of a long-crumbled village with a shawl in a faded pastel green draped over his shoulders. The light is overcast. Most likely it was getting ready to rain. 4S could almost be a human boy if not for the way his optic lights catch in in the gloom. “I guess we have to wear clothes because we’re shaped like humans in the first place, but it’s not like I play with my appearance to imitate them.”

“Then why?”

“Why not? I'll be a soldier until I'm dead or decommissioned. Changing my appearance is the only real say I have over what happens to this body.” He leans in to show off one particular picture where he’s tied the shawl around his head so the knot forms an enormous bow atop his head. It looks ridiculous, but he looks like he’s enjoying himself. “It’s fun to look cute."

For all his processing power, 801S can't figure out what to say to that.

“Well,” 4S adds lightheartedly. “I guess technically humans were the only ones who bothered to make cute things to begin with, so maybe you’re not wrong and I'm arguing semantics. But you gotta work with what you got, you know?”

Unconsciously, 801S plucks at his uniform. “I guess…”

“Wanna try some different clothes? I have plenty of stuff, and it’s not like our bodies are different.”

A surge in 801S’ core temperature makes steam waft from his collar and he quickly shifts down from beside 4S, clutching defensively at his coat. Is 4S that good? Or is he just that obvious? “I don’t... want to get in trouble.”

“You’re a good kid, huh? Why not start with something that’s already on your body then?” He gestures toward his hair. “Coloring it isn’t the only thing you can do to it. You’re surrounded by female models all day. Haven’t you ever seen one and thought she had really cute hair?”

In all honesty, he hasn't. Despite his pre-occupation with cute on a conceptual level, he hadn't really made it to the point of applying it to other androids. But 801S pinches a lock of his hair between his thumb and forefinger experimentally. It does grow, for some silly reason. Whoever designed and manufactured them didn’t bother getting the body hair thing working despite that having tangible cooling benefits and androids being sensitive to overheating, but the hair on their heads worked fine. It would even grow if left alone.

Maybe he can try a little something. Just for himself.

* * *

3S is the last of the scanners to show his face at the maintenance terminal.

Where the H units all responded to 32S with an attitude suggesting his repairs were an annoyance and a waste of their time, they respond to 3S more like he's a walking in-joke. There's a lot of grinning, some sympathetic, some not so much, and a rising rustle of shared glances and side comments as he crosses the lobby.

Not one of them makes a move to intercept him. He's 7H’s problem, and as soon as he opens his mouth, she slams her fist down on one of the nearby machines. “Seventy-nine days! **Seventy! _Nine!_** Without maintenance! And you’re such a slob I know you didn’t handle any of your routine repairs!”

His head tilts back, eyes wandering toward the silent ceiling lights. It's hard to tell if he's just awakened or if he is right on the edge of needing to take one of his infamous naps, but he's significantly less lucid than 801S remembers. Seventy-nine days without maintenance with the kind of workload he endures will do that.

“I guess…it has been that long.” He gives an airy smile. “Seventy-nine is a new record, isn’t it?”

7H looks ready to self-destruct on the spot. Steam hisses out to accompany the harsh sigh that gusts between her teeth and she jabs her thumb menacingly toward one of the smaller auditoriums where they handle more complex or time-consuming repairs. “Get your ass back there and start praying I don't just reprogram you altogether. I'm gonna make you compliant if it's the last thing I do.”

“Hmm, it's not like my intention was ever to get in the way of that... How about I promise one month of perfect compliance?"

"A month? I don't believe you can keep that up for so much as a week!"

"With you? No way, you're the scariest person on the whole Bunker. I'll aim for proper compliance, but only on the condition I get repaired by the new guy.”

The other Healers explode into surprised snorts of laughter in harsh contrast to the smoldering glare darkening 7H’s eyes. “Look. I don’t poke my nose into what you scanners do, but for whatever reason you’re the system administrator. I can’t leave your maintenance to a unit as new as 801S.”

“Sure you can. You’re always complaining I take up hours of your day. If he learns to do it, won’t it be someone else’s problem?”

The rationale visibly tempts her. 7H is not a lazy type by any stretch of 801S' imagination. She doesn’t mind working. She doesn’t mind working for a long time. What she minds so much about 3S, fundamentally, is that he wastes her time. A job that could be twenty minutes per week grows to eight or nine hours every six to eight weeks because he allows his condition to go from bad to worse to disastrous before he'll bother to do anything about it. 

801S would leave him to his deserved fate in 7H's care, if not for the cryptic implication from 4S that there might be much more to 3S than 801S thinks.

“I’m willing to do it,” he offers. “My specialization means I’m not likely to be explicitly necessary in an emergency.”

"That's not the point!" 7H barks.

"With all due respect, ma'am, you are the Head of Maintenance. Your time is valuable and your expertise is not easily replaced. Even if it takes me twice as long, it's still time you can better spend elsewhere and in addition, you get a month of good behavior out of your problem patient."

Efficiency is the doctrine that 7H lives her life by. More than command or humanity, it's where she places her faith. It's an easy appeal, and though she makes a show of grumbling and promising to check 801S' work, it's a win that was never in question. She ushers them back to the specific auditorium they'll be using for however long is necessary, and 801S watches the elder scanner carelessly mosey toward the single repair bed. One he must have spent many hours on with 7H toiling over him in the past.

“3S.” Behind his visor, 801S wears a difficult expression that matches the knot in his stomach. “It’s your body and you can do what you want with it. But you care for all our data. I hope you’re not letting it get so bad you’d jeopardize that.”

“...I would never.”

The words are lucid. Straightforward. _Serious._ Everything 801S wouldn't have assumed him to be from past interactions. And his eyes match that tone. 801S has gotten accustomed to being surrounded by blindfolds or veils, but 3S' face is always open and uncovered. He looks tired, but that comes from everywhere—bent posture to slumped shoulders to unapologetically messy hair. There are no less than twelve microdetails to his expression that 801S can see but not read, like a language that he doesn't have a translation pack for. But he can tell 3S means those words in every way that matters.

"Have the guys been bothering you?" 3S asks, his tone casual and dozy once more. "The other scanners?"

801S raises a brow and gets comfortable at the diagnostics terminal. He has a feeling this is going to be a long process and the report is going to make him regret volunteering for this. "Not bothering me, exactly, but they've been around. Very obviously."

3S smiles. It's not just an action of his mouth, but a sort of whole-face exercise that slightly lifts his cheeks and draws his eyes into a happy-looking squint. 801S is accustomed to the bright but meaningless grins 3S wears when he's around the Bunker; this one is the kind of smile whose only equivalent was last seen at the sleepover.

"I think I may have said something weird. I didn't mean for them to come and bother you."

"So _you're_ the reason everyone's been coming to see me? What the hell did you say?"

He scratches vaguely at the back of his neck. "Just that you seemed interesting. I wanted to know more about you. Seems like they took it as an excuse to come see you pretty much all at once."

"Ah, so they were all just intel-gathering..." His brows knit, but he's not sure why he's suddenly heaving an agitated sigh. "Well, they're scanners. I guess that's not strange."

"They weren't just intel gathering." There's a fondness to 3S' voice as he sags down to rest his head on his cheek. "Let me guess. 1S let you know you could rely on him, 4S gave you a pep talk and reminded you to relax, 32S went on about friendship, and 11S came in, said something kinda rough, and left."

No 9S, he notes. "That's... surprisingly accurate."

"They're always like that with the newest scanner."

Meaning 9S would have been the last to receive that treatment. And that this should have been the first time 9S revealed what he was like. If 3S really is diligent about their data, he probably already knows the old 9S has been lost. It's a mild but gratifying comfort that 3S doesn't draw attention to it. 801S doesn't think he has the words to talk about that yet.

He changes the subject instead. "Am I that interesting to you?"

"Dunno yet," 3S answers with a pointlessly wide smile. "I guess I'll find out."

801S shakes his head. They're scanners, true, but there's nothing about him that should arouse any curiosity. He doesn't get it, and doesn't waste time trying to figure it out. The diagnostics are back anyway, and it's every bit as awful as he expected it would be. He shoots an exasperated look over the edge of his screen, but 3S continues to slouch and grin like... like a...

"Sleepy idiot..."

3S eyes widen, and the smile cracks and falls off his face like a broken shell. It shouldn't be half as satisfying as it is. "Wh...what did you call me?"

"A sleepy _ **idiot**_ ," 801S repeats with more bite, jabbing a finger at his display. "Your systems are a goddamn mess. I'm not doing all of this in one go. You're gonna come in every day and we'll address this one failing component at a time until it's done. And if you don't show up, I'll—I'll steal your mattress!"

The room is silent in the wake of his outburst. There's only the ambiance of the humming machinery and the steam venting from under 801S' coat to accompany the surprise frozen onto 3S' face. And then he has his own outburst. A snicker escapes and a full-bodied laugh takes advantage of the jailbreak to follow. He rocks on top of the repair bed, clutching at the stiff material to keep from falling while the fit passes. 

"You really are interesting," he wheezes. "I like my bed, so I'll make sure I show up every day unless there's an emergency. Deal?"

801S crosses his arms. It's hard to call this a win considering the circumstances, but with 3S' reputation? It's progress, and he'll take it.

"Deal."


	4. Seven Days of September

The first day, 3S arrives at exactly the appointed time, half-smiling and half-yawning as he passes through the repair terminal lobby.

A spark of pride kindles below 801S’ plates. The H units had been betting amongst themselves whether or not 3S would actually show, and if so, how late he would be. 801S has managed to produce a surprising result, and maybe that is exactly why he was placed in such a strange job. If that’s so, he will do his best. He meets 7H’s eyes, his own full of resolve, and gives her a promissory nod.

When he follows after 3S, he finds him already in the appropriate position, laying out on the repair bed. A cursory check of his eyes finds his optic lights dim and gently strobing.

“Someone’s obedient today,” he says.

“That was the deal,”3S' speaker answers with tinny cheer. “In exchange for leaving my poor bed alone.”

It’s odd that no one has ever attempted to use that as leverage to get compliance out of 3S. Especially since it seems like a logical conclusion that if he likes to sleep so much, it's natural that he would act as necessary to preserve his ability to do so. Is it possible that such an easy analysis of his behavior would escape the H units? That’s too counterintuitive, so he focuses on the task at hand and doesn’t presume.

The disrepair is bad no matter where 801S considers beginning. He decides it best to start from the bottom, wheeling his seat next to 3S’ left leg and unscrewing his paneling to get at the hardware beneath.

“So,” 3S says. “What are we gonna talk about?”

801S doesn’t look up. He’s magnified his visual field several times and re-routed the processing power spent on less important functions to his motor cortex. With pinpoint accuracy, he assesses, removes, and replaces the tiny forest of conductive pins that make up the local processor. They are no bigger than an eyelash, and half as durable, and lined up like the teeth of a comb. It would be simple to replace it altogether, but he hasn’t done that in a while now. Wherever he picked up his recent insistence that an android’s body should be treated with the same attentiveness given to their memories, that belief is a part of his methods now.

“You can talk about anything you want,” he mumbles.

“Is there anything you want to know?”

How it is physically possible that 3S sustained some of this damage. It may have been three months, but he’s a Bunker-based unit. Where is all this wear and tear coming from? Just because he’s an older model?

“Not really...”

“Well, since I get to see you do your work, how about I tell you about mine?”

“I know what you do, though.”

3S’ face is as immobile as the rest of his body, but 801S can hear the airheaded smile in his inflection. “Then you know how much time I spend removing extraneous data from the server?”

801S gives a distracted but inquisitive hum as he plucks another pin, and painstakingly slots a new one into place.

“It’s about half my working hours.”

“That’s…” 801S’ brows draw beneath his bangs. “That’s a lot of your time, isn’t it?”

“ **Yes** ,” 3S answers with a density that startles 801S a bit. “I have dozens of other tasks. Making sure back-up bodies are fully ready to interface with the server at boot-up in case we have an emergency. Addressing any noise in the data or activity from the defensive system that protects that data that might suggest contamination. Model update syncing, OS changes, propagation, installation, integration of any major developments they come up with over here in R&D, and anything that requires configuration of the network requires my involvement. And that’s all on top of ensuring the data back-up and recovery system is functional and secure. Which includes ensuring the necessary storage is available to accommodate any emergency uploads which is a _constant_ battle against junk data that never ends no matter how many requests I make.”

801S stalls a moment. Struggles to absorb all of that with so much of his processing power diverted. It’s the most and most seriously he has ever heard 3S talk. “That sounds like it compromises efficiency. Why not penalize that behavior?”

3S tosses his serious tone away with a light-hearted laugh. “That’s penalizing Operators for the way they’re programmed. Like S-types being curious and B-types being kinda rough.”

 _Self-control should be a part of our programming too._ 801S doesn’t bother to say that. The android he’s working on is someone who sleeps a week or more at a time in between working non-stop and ignoring his maintenance. 

“Even if it’s a pain in the ass, the Operators can’t help it. They’re really…” His voice trails off, and 801S finds himself waiting to hear whatever important thought 3S is trying to form. However, he just yawns and nonchalantly continues: “Really enamored with the Earth, is all.”

801S suppresses a sigh and chides himself to stay on task. What was he even expecting?

* * *

The second day, 3S shows up on time again, only this time with a lurching gait and a put-upon frown.

801S does not react. None of the H models do. It’s not that he has broken something new, it’s that his repaired left leg has made the appalling state of the rest of his body clear. His motor cortex can’t compensate for the sudden asynchrony, so his good leg moves as intended while the rest of him wobbles after it like it’s underwater. Only when 3S struggles to climb into the repair bed does 801S feel enough pity to help him.

Hopefully, the inconvenience will help 3S learn his lesson.

He sits beside the right leg, which is no better than the left was, and arranges his tools. No sooner does he work his way down to the interior hardware than 3S launches into conversation mode. “Have you ever wondered what a tree feels like?”

It’s a strange enough question that even though 801S has already made his processing adjustments, he raises his head and spins his in chair. It’s not like 3S can see the face he’s making, but it feels important that 801S makes it in his direction anyway.

“What are you talking about?”

“Trees,” 3S answers with a dazed innocence. “You know, where wood comes from?”

“I know what a _tree_ is, 3S.” He weighs whether he should explain why he’s confused and decides that if he gets swept up like that, the conversation will spin even more wildly off course. “Can’t say they’ve been on my mind much.”

“Right. Because you’re not looking at them all the time, so they’re not on your mind. But the operators are looking at Earth all the time and—”

801S closes his eyes, his confusion yielding to a feeling he could almost mistake for anger if he weren’t trying so hard not to laugh. “3S, are you—are you trying to continue _yesterday’s_ conversation?”

“Hmmm… I guess so? Should I talk about something else?”

“No, no…” 801S says weakly, shaking his head and spinning back around in his chair. “You can keep going.”

“Nnn, I was only going to say the Operators are looking at Earth all the time, but they can never go down there. So, it’s natural they’d collect all kinds of data on it. I do get grumpy about it sometimes, but it’s not all that bad sorting through the stuff they collect. It’s kind of revealing.”

A distinct choice of word and not one 801S would have expected. “Revealing? Of what?”

“What the operators are like. What they’re interested in and what’s important to them.”

A near-imperceptible softness laces the older scanner’s voice. 801S hesitates to get invested in what he’ll say next given yesterday’s experience, but he is rewarded anyway when 3S begins to describe the patterns he has observed.

Images of flowers are the most common thing on the server at any given time. So many that 3S jokes that YoRHa could’ve created a complete catalog of Earth’s flora several times over by now. Seasons and occasionally ground unit location affect flower data, but there is clearly a group of operators who like dark, rare-looking flowers that barely resemble flowers at all, and another group who like the brightly-colored and easily recognizable type of flowers. There are also Operators who like places and collect images of mountains and seashores and grasslands and run-down remains of small villages. Some like animals and save photos of plumage and fur and scales; beaks and claws, and fins. A great deal of them are enamored with what the sky looks like from Earth, and images of the horizon are nearly as common as flowers.

He’s seen the scales on butterfly wings and spiders in their webs. Broken down basins that humans used to swim in to regulate body temperature in hot weather if they had no access to natural water sources. Fireplaces and slippers and blankets and so old they’re nearly dust. Toys and clothes and technology and every so often, a picture of food in some musty book where the words had long since run off the page.

“Once, a long loooong time ago, there was even a picture of the moon taken from the shore of the kingdom of night. But that one got flagged by the automatic protocol that handles confidentiality.”

Against the edge of the repair bed, 801S’ hands are still. He’s been finished for nearly ten minutes. “Why…?”

“Wouldn’t be confidential if I knew.”

Earth is an abstract concept. A battlefield and not much else. While the detailed descriptions go a long way to make it feel like a real place, 801S is far more interested in the connecting line the data draws between 3S and all the Operators. He might not know the designation of the one who likes pictures of towering cloud formations vs the one who collects images of infant care supplies. Still, he recognizes them as distinct in the data they are all constantly clogging his server with. Patterns in the noise that represent individuals.

Practically, it is an impressive level of pattern analysis. But it is more than that too. It’s...revealing.

* * *

On day three, 801S pulls up to 3S’ left arm and speaks first.

“What do the B and D units think of Earth?”

“Hmm, are you interested in this kind of thing now?” The lazy teasing doesn’t do its job. 3S sounds much too happy.

“It’s a reasonably interesting topic that helps to pass the time,” 801S says matter-of-factly.

3S makes a noise that isn’t a laugh or a hum or a yawn but sounds like all three. “I don’t really know what a lot of them get up to down there or what they think of it. They don’t tend to come back with intel unless it’s requested by their Operator, and you know where that ends up.” Mischievous energy comes into his voice. “I can tell you some of the weird stuff they’ve gotten into on the Bunker though.”

It’s difficult for 801S to imagine the things combat units normally get up to in their spare time in the first place. That they’ve done weird things pulls on the strings of his curiosity. “Like what?”

“Hmm… In 11943 there was a muscle craze that lasted for about two weeks.”

“Muscle…craze?”

“Uh huh. Somehow a mostly intact manuscript about bodybuilding made it back to the Bunker and for whatever reason the B units got really into it and started requesting mods to increase their mass. It was a weird time for maintenance and R&D, 7H can probably tell you all about it.”

“I’m more interested in why they bothered…” 801S says with exasperation that can only be a fraction of what 7H must’ve felt. “Did extra mass lead to an increase in combat strength?”

“Not particularly. They just liked the look of it.”

‘Aesthetic’ is a terrible reason for androids to be wasteful. And unfortunately, one that 801S sympathizes with. His mouth twists stubbornly as he tries to rationalize that clothes don’t count because they already have weird uniforms, but the disconnect isn’t that easy to dispel. “So they thought it was cute…”

“More like they thought it made them look strong. But machines don’t care about stuff like that. Commander got really mad.”

“Because we’re not supposed to imitate human customs we don’t understand?”

“I mean, probably that too... But mostly the extra cable to create the bulkier appearance was expensive.” 3S' voice dropped as he laughed sympathetically. “And Commander’s a lot stricter with the ground units than she is with us.”

801S briefly thinks the ‘us’ means scanners, before it sinks in that what it actually means is ‘bunker-only’ units.

Trying to figure out what he’s doing in the maintenance terminal for so long, he hasn’t had much time to remember than he’s an outsider among his fellow scanners. Or that 3S is an outlier too. Strange and messy and meandering as he is, it’s comforting to remember that they are the same. Though it does make him wonder why 3S would want to know more about him. It would be one thing if he just wanted an in-group he felt at ease in—801S knows what that’s like. But he seems at ease no matter who he’s talking to. A unit with a very different experience rather than a very similar one should be the one to catch his curiosity.

 _Maybe that’s just not the tree he’s always looking at…_ He frowns, unsure of how he feels that he’s managed to make a coherent thought from 3S’ odd way of simplifying things. Maybe he should get his junk data cleaned out after this repair job is over.

* * *

On the fourth day, 801S gets an e-mail.

> Got called for oversight on an urgent IT issue.

> Promise I will be there tomorrow! (´･ω･`)

—3S

Even when sending a perfectly normal message, 3S has to add in an artifact of his strange personality, it seems.

What the heck is that face anyway…?

7H laughs when she hears and says 15O already confirmed he really did get called (which, to 801S, raises some concerning implications about how much effort 3S has put into dodging maintenance in the past). Instead of putting him on a different task, 7H recommends he take a break for the period he’d already reserved. Her way of rewarding him for his continued good work.

801S slides down into the same seat he’s been using the past three days and absently stares at the gleam of his tools. He shifts a few times. Leans over the repair bed. Drums his fingers. Worries that something is wrong when he realizes he’s fidgeting. His motor function is in perfect condition, though. He reasons with himself that if he’s restless he should just get up and make himself useful, but the moment he thinks of doing anything other than what he would be doing if not for the IT problem, it drains the energy out of him.

"This must be 'boredom'..." he mutters darkly, letting his face sink into the cot. "Gross..."

* * *

On the fifth day, 801S smiles into the delicate circuitry of 3S’ right hand.

Wrists and fingers are among the parts of the body that bunker-bound androids damage most often. Writing, typing, washing, manipulating readouts, patching clothes, repairing flight units, and even the fine hardware work that H units do—all these tasks to take care of their physical surroundings require physical interaction that deeply involves their hands. The damage isn’t meaningful or life-threatening, but 801S thinks it’s something to take pride in. A sign that the androids who can’t fight are still working hard.

3S is regaling him with more stories about the Bunker and what other YoRHa get up to in detail that is deeply unnecessary but not unwelcome. There is immense respect in the way he talks about the bunker-side jobs that are handled by the Operators. Whether he is describing the rotational nature of the mundane chores or the intense pressure of being chosen for the Bunker’s structural integrity team, the feeling in his voice is a languid match for what 801S feels when he works on damaged hands.

“Every time you talk about the work that’s done around here you’re like an entirely different person,” 801S marvels. “Why aren’t you this serious all the time?”

“I don’t think I’m being all that serious,” says 3S. “I’m just lying here and letting you clean up the mess I made while I talk about the past like an old-timer. Not that I mind if you want to keep praising me~”

801S shakes his head. “When you say stuff like that it’s like you’re _trying_ to come off as irresponsible.”

“Trying...? Nnn, nah… Not really. I think I’m probably just like this now.”

Meaning he wasn’t like that before.

801S opens his mouth and just as quickly clamps down on the question. He thinks he knows what 3S will say, but it’s something he’d like to ask when 3S isn’t in maintenance mode. When he can watch his face for the truth.

“I’ve got a question,” he offers, to change the subject. “Just how often did YoRHa units bring things back with them? It sounds like it the rules weren't always so strict about it.”

“There weren’t any rules about it,” 3S laughs. “It was unexpected behavior, so rules had to be made in response. Even 1S caused trouble before that.”

“ **1** S?” 801S blurts incredulously. “He’s so proper and accountable though—was it when he was new?”

“It was maybe… eight months after his rollout? He kept bringing these blocks of wood back to the bunker and carving stuff out of them and the sanitation team got mad about it the debris generated. Because the Bunker’s supposed to be a sterile environment, O-type filtration systems aren’t as robust as those intended for planet-side operation. So to have sawdust or small splinters around was actually a big problem.”

“Why was he carving things?”

“S’just something he does. …And also because he’s vain.”

801S bites inside his lip, even though 3S physically cannot see. “Don’t tease him when he’s not here to defend himself.”

“Teasing…? I’m really not. But I don’t wanna sound like I’m talking bad about him… Whatever, you’ll see it for yourself one day. The guys are just like the Operators, they’ve all got their thing they like and their reason for liking it.”

Harmless aesthetic modification for 4S, because he likes to be cute. Sleeping, obviously, for 3S, though 801S doesn’t know why. Instead of pressing on that, he timidly asks, “…Even 11S?”

“Absolutely, absolutely. Do you happen to know what an earworm is?”

The image of a slimy, wobbling pink thing crawling in someone’s ear makes 801S unconsciously rub his shoulders against the sides of his head. “No, that sounds awful!”

“I know right~? But it actually just means a song that’s so catchy it gets into a lot of people’s heads. 11S has spread a lot of them to the Operators.”

That’s hard to imagine and harder to believe. Songs are supposed to be pleasant as far as 801S knows, and that’s hardly a match for 11S’ personality. “Did you ever catch the earworm?”

“Never stay awake long enough to catch it,” 3S laughs. “He’s got a really great voice. If he even hums a little bit, I fall right asleep.”

801S tucks that bit of knowledge away for another time.

* * *

Day six arrives and 801S is quiet. The pre-repair small talk barely registers. He sits mechanically in his chair. Waiting without really paying attention. He has some dim sense that 3S is in the repair bed because he is facing it and his visual field is functional, but he isn’t truly processing any of the information. So it surprises him when 3S calls his name from much closer than he expected him to be.

Again today he wears no visor and his eyes, droopy but expressive, are watching him half with curiosity and half with concern.

“There you are,” he says with a slow smile. “It’s not like you be the airheaded one. Something on your mind?”

His thoughts feel jumbled and complicated, like they could go on forever in circles if he let them. He has rationalized it for hours and there’s no longer any anger or sadness. All that’s left is the tautness in his chest that persists though there is nothing wrong with his body. Where does he begin? How does he explain?

“I saw 9S today,” he confesses quietly. “Walking around the Bunker with a combat model.”

“Big shock… I didn’t think you were the jealous type.”

801S glares up at him with lips pressed thin. “I don’t have any feelings like that. I’m upset that when I talked to him he didn’t know who I was. I’m upset he forgot me. Again.” Leather creaks as his fingers clench into fists atop his knees. “It’s the third time. The second time I spoke to him he didn’t remember me _at all_ , even though my orientation was weeks before that. That’s so much—too much.”

“You’re in the maintenance department. You must know that YoRHa on the ground lose their memory pretty often… Why should it be different for 9S?”

3S is correct. 801S knows that. He’s seen units lose days, even weeks of their memory at a time after dying suddenly. 32S alone is constantly forgetting things because of his reckless habits. He doesn’t know what makes it so different, only that it is. None of those truths exist in the same galaxy as the loss of the 9S who greeted him with an enthusiastic smile the moment he opened his eyes for the first time. “Because he welcomed me. Even though I’m a weird unit with a weird job. The same goes for all of you. I don’t like the feeling of that being lost. It frustrates me." And frustrates him that he should feel frustrated by it at all, but that is a hole too deep to dig right now. "What kind of work do they even have him doing down there?”

“The dangerous kind,” 3S mumbles. He properly assumes the repair position but doesn’t initiate the corresponding mode. He lays there, with his hands folded on his stomach, staring at the plain white ceiling with an unreadable, distant expression. “9S will forget you a lot. Just call him Nines every now and again if you can. That way he knows he’s forgotten someone he used to consider a friend.”

“Is that how it is…” 801S murmurs, rubbing at his arms to snap himself out of this. “Sorry. I must sound selfish.”

3S looks at him with rare confusion in his wide eyes. “You? Selfish?”

“To talk about this with you, who must have been forgotten so many times. It felt like I was saying something insensitive when I stopped to think about it.”

“It’s not…really like that…” 3S says with more hesitance than usual. “It doesn’t bother me. You kinda get used to it after awhile.”

There is kindness to be heard in those words, but the resignation beats them by a mile and coagulates into a sour weight in 801S stomach. “I don’t want to get used to something this awful…”

* * *

On the last day, 801S completes his work in silence.

He is working on components in 3S’ head, which requires that the associated hardware be placed in an offline state. It’s not like sleep or suspension, and definitely not like death, but like this 3S is only a collection of components. An android in potential only.

801S work with the same diligence as ever, but faster than usual. Not that it helps. 3S’ motor cortex is just as sluggish as his sub-processors, his optic components are burnt out, and the entire complex of his memory hardware is so baffling that 801S ends up examining it for a full twenty minutes before giving up. Every element involved in his memory is shiny, new, and so cutting edge it’s likely that it has even better integrity than 801S’ own. And yet it’s busted. It has to be. There’s no other reason that the test queries he runs through 3S’ recall processor come back so slow. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe 3S when he’d explained his memory was bad for no reason, he just thought there had to be something somewhere that someone had overlooked.

He still believes that must be the case. They’re androids after all. As much of a hit to his pride as it is, it must be a defect so small that even he can’t identify the problem. It almost doesn’t matter when 3S swings off the maintenance bed and celebrates the completion of his maintenance with a stretch so big his auxiliary vents give a slight pressure-releasing hiss and a yawn so loud there’s no way it isn’t audible in the lobby.

801S presses the back of his hand to his mouth and laughs politely. “I suppose that means you’ll be going to take a nap now?”

“Uh huh,” It’s nice to see the dopey way he smiles at the prospect—instead of only hearing it in his voice. “Sleeping with a freshly repaired body is the best.”

“Days you sleep won’t count toward your month of compliance,” 801S says, raising his chin slyly. “You’ll have to keep it up once you wake up.”

“Aww, it should totally count. You used to be such a nice guy before the Healers got you. They’re so mean.”

“Only if you’re irresponsible.”

He rolls up his tools, signs off on the compliance paperwork, and attaches a copy of the current diagnostic report. That’s it. That’s everything. He glances up to where 3S is slouching with his hands in his pockets, and it dawns on him that this routine he’s only just become accustomed to is complete. Compliance check-ins are weekly. It’s about the only time they’ll see each other. And after 30 days is up, who knows. They might go back to interacting maybe once a month.

“I think I’ve earned a break,” he announces, placing his clipboard beside his tools with care and hopping out of his seat. “Wanna join me?”

“It’s all been breaks for me, but I’ll gladly to take another.” He tilts his head to peer at 801S’ face like it will help him see through the visor. “I’m surprised you’re not tired of me talking your ear off.”

“Well…” 801S trails, leading the way out into the lobby. “You didn’t really get to do that today, did you?”

They pass through the terminal and up through the residential ring. Just like when they were headed to the sleepover, a lot of the Operators at least wave to 3S. Now that he’s become a known entity to most of them, many of them also greet 801S. It’s a comfortable change. To be born suddenly into the world as a complete consciousness with knowledge but no memories to contextualize with is challenging. The whole point of orientation is to ease that burden, but it doesn't make it vanish entirely. At least, not in 801S' experience.

“What was roll-out like for you?” he asks, as they step into the hangar terminal elevator.

“Nothing… special.” His eyes wander toward the ceiling as his recall functions no doubt chug to reach back that far. “Not much different from yours, I guess.”

“But you were the first scanner right?" The doors open, and they step off together. "Who handled your orientation?”

“I…” He squints against the running lights in the hangar floor and becomes momentarily distracted staring at the flight suits. “I can’t remember the last time I was down here… “

801S holds in a sigh. 3S’ memory really is a disaster matched only by his attention span. “You really do turn your processors off when you’re not working don’t you?”

“Probably~”

801S guides them out to the launch area and furtively dips his head back and forth. No one around today. Off to one side, there’s a ladder that runs up to where they rack spare flight units high on the wall. He guides them in the opposite direction, down a long corridor typically only used by the bunker integrity crew. The floor lights end and strobing red approach lights take their place, glowing from the underside of the platform. Soon they are beyond those as well. And beyond the Bunker’s hull.

The sky opens above their heads, blacker than any uniform they could ever make and filled with stars both brilliant and humble. As the Bunker rotates, Earth periodically comes into view. A faint haze of ruined atmosphere surrounds the edge where the sunlight barely peeks over the horizon. The Bunker moves as needed, but for now, they are stationed in relative twilight and the white hull reflects only a mild glare.

“Wow…” 3S says, staring at the way his coat rises in the reduced gravity. “I didn’t realize you liked to live so dangerously.”

“It’s not dangerous as long as you don’t do anything reckless.” He takes his favorite spot, right out at the edge where it’s only the railing between him and the stars. Humans require oxygen. Wherever they are hiding up on the moon, they cannot stand so casually where he stands. And maybe it’s a kind of blasphemy that it’s not pity but smugness that wells in him every time he thinks of it.

If 3S feels any concern, it doesn’t show. He joins 801S at the extremity of the platform, folds lazily until his elbows rest on the railings and his chin rests in his hand and smiles sleepily off at the stars.

“What did you used to be like?” 801S finally asks.

“Hmm…” He tilts his head. “Sorry, I don’t think I can remember that far back.”

“We’re androids. We don’t forget things, 3S.”

“You saw it for yourself,” he pouts. “My hardware is good, but my recall only gets worse every year. It’s a pain to try and remember back that far.”

801S can’t really contest that when he was thinking pretty much the same thing not an hour ago. “Can I ask a different question then? Why do you sleep the way you do?”

3S shrugs without any change in his expression. “Probably the same reason you look at the stars.”

It’s an answer that makes perfect sense to 801S, but he hopes he never becomes as self-destructive about the stars as 3S is about sleeping. He leans down onto the railing as well, staring at constellations he has made up for himself because he doesn’t understand most of the ones in the archives. Absently, he brushes his hair back from his eyes.

“It’s gotten longer.”

Beside him, 3S’ eyes are barely open—he looks like a picture of a cat that 4S once shared—but his optic lights shine gently in the direction of 801S’ crown. 

801S doesn’t fully know what to do with the emotion that follows being complimented that casually, so he pushes it aside, into the compartment where he keeps all the wastefully human things he feels and does and hasn’t come to terms with. For him, there's a long, bitter process involved with digesting novel emotions. He doesn’t want to deal with it right now. 

“it’s not like it’s gotten that much longer,” he says, not sounding half as casual as 3S always does. “I’m—” Surprised. That he noticed. But that’s not quite right, is it? If 3S can parse out operators from repeating trends in photos, of course he’s not as oblivious as his demeanor implies. Of course he’ll notice a change, even if it’s just a centimeter or two.

“I’m…” He swallows, suddenly feeling too seen, and maybe he’s just as weird as 3S is because instead of backing down, he charges right in to put his own words to what has already been observed. “I’m going to let it grow out! I think it’ll—! Look nice… on me…”

3S, who laughs at everything, especially when he shouldn’t, doesn’t make a sound or show any amusement at 801S’ plan or at how quickly his nerve failed him. His eyes flutter. If anything, he looks like he could fall contentedly asleep right there and then. “You’re really…really interesting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize the irony of saying this but I *will* humanize all the no-name YoRHa who were keeping that spaceboat afloat.


End file.
